©Allen Sutterfield
hard part is getting yourself to the point where
there is no stopping
long enough to say something, anything at all will do
in that most literal of ways
you know what I mean
Stranger?
but it’s hard, peeling off the outer layers
just so something inside
can tan awhile
in the light if eye
Monday, June 05, 2006
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Allen's Text 80
©2006 – Allen Sutterfield
Chapter two: Some Months Later
The nearest I can say is,
I haven’t really been myself
but it doesn’t sound the same on the page as when I read it off in my head just now, Reader to the end
but I know for sure
(the calendar tells me so)
It’s been all of ten months since leaving off and oh, the reading I’ve done since then ( as you can see, hardly any writing, in fact, none ), the reading, Dear Reader, the reading! I managed to ensconce myself just about as firmly as one can, all things concerned. Or is it considered? No matter. The table at which I work is not a table for dwarfs, nor is it the same table ( I believe it was a desk, if my memory serves this tiny platter ) at which I typed before, this being the after of the famous comparison. You tell me if it looks any better, I’m not at a loss. And please forgive my casual directness, it’s only the familiarity of readers, that we are both readers, indeed we are can you would you deny it? it’s that we are both readers sustains us, I know it’s a curious certainty , and I’m less subtle than a European being primitive, but it’s the only bridge on which we walk, hardly oblivious to the obvious pitfalls.
They darken away on either side. All the faces that rise up in this strangely isolating act, on either side I mean, out there in the airless gulf, not even a river of blood separating us, from them I mean, there is no separating us from each other, sanguine as we persist in the sheer face of ink and industrial marvels. far back as Johannes Gee at least, linked in ink little wonder we feel for each other, the best we can manage, feeling so rare here, on our make believe bridge and groom in uncalculated doom, wedded in the instance forever, passing, missing as we do everything on every side of the bridge. Ah, anyway it’s only a metaphor, don’t let me get you down, not that easily anyway, true, it’s not a very long bridge and yet we never seem to get to the end of it, nor remember when we first stepped on its swinging. Bridges!
What a concern. I was hoping, as I’m sure you were, that there might be something more. Perhaps there is, perhaps we just haven’t come to it yet, and afterall, who am I to be positing we so gamely? Maybe I am wrong, or misinformed simply, to do so, I don’t know, It’s probably just my experience speaking again.
But I Have always felt part of an act, you know? Like the Vaudeville Horse. Some writers wrote and I read, Naturally I was at the ass end, since reading follows writing, however blindly, but then I stumbled one day upon (or it could have been one night, it’s always dark there midway in the Horse ) a disastrous discovery, to wit, that just because I was the ass end of the business didn’t mean I didn’t lead, and actually come first, now and again, this being when I discovered that Mr. Horsehead Writer ( my to what point better half ) had himself been a reader first! I sat down immediately and the complete works collapsed on top of me. First the audience laughed and I just kept sitting there with the head scrambling and tumbling all over me and then the laughter died away and then the awkward silence and then the hooting and yelling and real clamoring, well, I realized finally what a pickle: which end was up?
Obviously my own as a horses ass, pardon, rear, and was I out of a job? However shitty? It seemed so. The Head was no help at all in this mess. Finally I got to my feet, ignoring the Head, let it do what it could, whoever my partner was up there ( for there was no intercourse between us really, though naturally the outside looker could not know that ), and just started running each way for a little space, agog wit the my realization and just taken with the sheerness of it, having discovered who and what I really was at long last, i.e., a reader and that, far from following, I might have even this minute be stomping out the tune by which some other would be surely lead ( the ever ambiguous silent partner ) whether I knew it or not, since I was now moving and thrashing about and, still the Vaudeville Horse, could hear the audience settling down again, and sure as shooting someone else was in the Head, cavorting with me in the maddest of japes, doomed to find out ( if he or she as it just might chance ) that I in the end no longer knew my way about, had no place where I had to be at any given time, no pattern to follow or to lead, and thereby neither did he, could she, would it, have, either: only road open was this clomping bridge to hide our naked ingot . ignorance of what we were about.
Chapter two: Some Months Later
The nearest I can say is,
I haven’t really been myself
but it doesn’t sound the same on the page as when I read it off in my head just now, Reader to the end
but I know for sure
(the calendar tells me so)
It’s been all of ten months since leaving off and oh, the reading I’ve done since then ( as you can see, hardly any writing, in fact, none ), the reading, Dear Reader, the reading! I managed to ensconce myself just about as firmly as one can, all things concerned. Or is it considered? No matter. The table at which I work is not a table for dwarfs, nor is it the same table ( I believe it was a desk, if my memory serves this tiny platter ) at which I typed before, this being the after of the famous comparison. You tell me if it looks any better, I’m not at a loss. And please forgive my casual directness, it’s only the familiarity of readers, that we are both readers, indeed we are can you would you deny it? it’s that we are both readers sustains us, I know it’s a curious certainty , and I’m less subtle than a European being primitive, but it’s the only bridge on which we walk, hardly oblivious to the obvious pitfalls.
They darken away on either side. All the faces that rise up in this strangely isolating act, on either side I mean, out there in the airless gulf, not even a river of blood separating us, from them I mean, there is no separating us from each other, sanguine as we persist in the sheer face of ink and industrial marvels. far back as Johannes Gee at least, linked in ink little wonder we feel for each other, the best we can manage, feeling so rare here, on our make believe bridge and groom in uncalculated doom, wedded in the instance forever, passing, missing as we do everything on every side of the bridge. Ah, anyway it’s only a metaphor, don’t let me get you down, not that easily anyway, true, it’s not a very long bridge and yet we never seem to get to the end of it, nor remember when we first stepped on its swinging. Bridges!
What a concern. I was hoping, as I’m sure you were, that there might be something more. Perhaps there is, perhaps we just haven’t come to it yet, and afterall, who am I to be positing we so gamely? Maybe I am wrong, or misinformed simply, to do so, I don’t know, It’s probably just my experience speaking again.
But I Have always felt part of an act, you know? Like the Vaudeville Horse. Some writers wrote and I read, Naturally I was at the ass end, since reading follows writing, however blindly, but then I stumbled one day upon (or it could have been one night, it’s always dark there midway in the Horse ) a disastrous discovery, to wit, that just because I was the ass end of the business didn’t mean I didn’t lead, and actually come first, now and again, this being when I discovered that Mr. Horsehead Writer ( my to what point better half ) had himself been a reader first! I sat down immediately and the complete works collapsed on top of me. First the audience laughed and I just kept sitting there with the head scrambling and tumbling all over me and then the laughter died away and then the awkward silence and then the hooting and yelling and real clamoring, well, I realized finally what a pickle: which end was up?
Obviously my own as a horses ass, pardon, rear, and was I out of a job? However shitty? It seemed so. The Head was no help at all in this mess. Finally I got to my feet, ignoring the Head, let it do what it could, whoever my partner was up there ( for there was no intercourse between us really, though naturally the outside looker could not know that ), and just started running each way for a little space, agog wit the my realization and just taken with the sheerness of it, having discovered who and what I really was at long last, i.e., a reader and that, far from following, I might have even this minute be stomping out the tune by which some other would be surely lead ( the ever ambiguous silent partner ) whether I knew it or not, since I was now moving and thrashing about and, still the Vaudeville Horse, could hear the audience settling down again, and sure as shooting someone else was in the Head, cavorting with me in the maddest of japes, doomed to find out ( if he or she as it just might chance ) that I in the end no longer knew my way about, had no place where I had to be at any given time, no pattern to follow or to lead, and thereby neither did he, could she, would it, have, either: only road open was this clomping bridge to hide our naked ingot . ignorance of what we were about.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Cerro's Love
©2006 - CerroLately I am tripping all over; I am falling in love again!
What kind of love is it… You asked…
Passionate… burning with longing? Pure… gurgling like spring water? Secret… hidden between sheets? Open and free like the flight of birds?
My answer is:
You are tickling and poking with words like a master craftsman using his tools!
What kind of love? I would say… at the moment… pure and gurgling like spring water… with a promise of all the above mentioned to come… in addition to compassionate and unconditional on my part… I lay down all my cards… and I love with all my heart!
Foolish or brave? …I have nothing to loose, why should I be afraid?
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